Fault Line

Chapter 4

Morning hits hard. Straight through the thin, half-broken blinds, the light cuts across my face like it’s personal. My eyes snap shut again instantly, a quiet groan pulling out of my throat before I can stop it. Head pounding. Dry mouth. Everything a second behind. I don’t move. Lie there for a second, arm thrown over my eyes, breathing shallow through it. Regret sits somewhere in the back of my throat. The cheap kind. The room’s too quiet. Feels wrong. There’s always noise. A pipe knocking. Someone yelling. Music bleeding through walls that are too thin to pretend otherwise.

I crack one eye open. Bad idea. Light hits harder this time, sharp enough to make me swear under my breath. I drag my arm down just enough to squint around the room. Same as always. Small—but everything where it’s meant to be. Shoes lined up by the door. Clothes folded, not spilling. A plant by the window that’s somehow still alive. One candle on the counter, burned down slow. The couch is still covered with that blanket—hiding the tear underneath.

My phone’s somewhere. Not where it should be. I shift slightly, immediately regretting it as my head pulses again, slower this time but deeper.

“f**k…” My voice sounds wrecked.

I swallow, push myself up onto one elbow, then stop halfway, eyes closing again as the room tilts just slightly.

Yeah. This is going to be a slow start.

I sit there for a second, breathing through it, then force myself upright anyway. Back against the wall, legs stretched out across the mattress, head tipped back. Blink. Adjust. Survive. My gaze drifts toward the window again. The light’s brighter now—late morning. Later than I meant. Doesn’t matter. I scrub a hand down my face, then reach blindly toward the floor, fingers brushing over fabric, then finally— phone. Got it. I pull it up, squinting at the screen. Too bright. I lower it immediately, muttering something under my breath, then bring it back slower this time, brightness dragged down before I actually look. Time. Late. Of course it is. I let my head fall back against the wall again with a dull thud.

“Perfect.”

A beat.

Then the day comes flooding in.

Tonight. Ivy. The fight. Kian. Cars.

I exhale slowly through my nose, eyes still half-lidded. Right. No easing into the day. I push myself off the bed properly this time, feet hitting the floor a little harder than intended. The room tilts again—brief, manageable. I steady. Wait it out. Then move.

Bathroom’s barely a room—just a narrow space with a sink that doesn’t quite drain right and a mirror that’s seen better decades. Another plant sits in front of the large crack in the corner, hiding it from veiw. I flick the tap on. Water runs. Cold. Good. I lean over the sink, splash my face once, twice—sharp enough to pull me fully back into myself. I grip the edge of the basin, head hanging for a second, water dripping down my chin. Then I look up. The mirror doesn’t lie.

Smudged eyeliner. Hair a mess. Eyes a little too bright under it all.

I huff a quiet breath.

“Yeah. You look great.”

I reach for my toothbrush first. Always first. The right amount of toothpaste. I leave the water running, and don't rush. Once that's done I plug the sink, and let it fill halfway with cold water. I gather all the hair at the base of my neck and dunk my face into the water, holding it under for a second longer than necessary. it knocks the breath out of me, but I recover quickly, staying there until it feels right. I wash my face properly before draining the sink, and brush my hair back, securing it in a tight braid.

Then back into the room.

I grab clothes from the top of the dresser, already layed out for myself the day before, I learned a long time ago how race nights go.

My stomach rolls slightly as I move too fast.

I pause.

Wait.

Keep going.

I pick boots from the lineup, and lace them tight.

Phone in hand.

Keys—

where—

I glance around, then spot them on the small counter near the door. Right where I left them. For once. I stuff them into my pocket along with my phone.

I hesitate for half a second, listening again.

Still quiet.

Then I pull the door open— and the noise slams back in.

Voices, footsteps, a door banging somewhere down the hall, someone already yelling. Normal.

I step out, shut the door behind me, and keep moving.

The stairwell smells like damp and something sour. Same as always. I take it two at a time, hand skimming the rail out of habit more than balance. Out front, the cold hits hard. Sharp. Immediate. It drags a breath out of me whether I want it or not, lungs stinging before they settle. My shoulders pull in, chin tucking down against it. Better than the hangover.

Street’s already moving. Tires hissing over wet patches. Someone arguing half a block down, voices carrying clearer in the cold. A truck idling somewhere, exhaust drifting thick and white into the air.

I pull my phone out as I start walking, fingers already stiffening.

Need you after work. I’ll come to you.

Send.

Phone back in my pocket before the cold can bite through it.

Four blocks. Nothing special. Brick dark with damp. Metal railings cold enough to burn if you hold them. Old graffiti layered over older graffiti. Frost clinging to the edges of the pavement where the sun hasn’t touched. I pass the van. Same one. Steam and burnt coffee smell rolling out of it, worse in the cold. I slow. Think about it. Keep walking. Corner store instead.

The bell gives a dull ring when I push the door open. Heat hits me—dry, artificial, too much all at once. My face prickles as it adjusts. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything flattened under them. Fridges hum along the back wall.

I grab an iced coffee. Cold on cold. Doesn’t matter. Sandwich from the shelf.

At the counter, a woman’s already there. Coins spread out. Red fingers. Counting twice.

“Still short,” the guy says.

She hesitates. Shoulders tight. Cigarettes on the counter. She glances sideways. Not quite at me.

I don’t move.

A second.

Then she exhales and starts gathering the coins back up, slower this time.

I step forward when she’s gone.

“Just this.”

He rings it up. I pay.

Back outside.

The cold hits harder after the heat. Settles in quicker this time. I cross between cars, breath fogging out in front of me. One passes too fast, bass rattling through it, exhaust trailing behind.

The garage sits halfway down the next stretch. Shutter half-open. Light spilling out onto the pavement.

Then—

An engine revs. Loud. Familiar.

I don’t look.

“Princess finally awake?”

I flip Zach off over my shoulder.

“Bit rough this morning?” he calls.

“Are you even old enough to drive?” I shoot back.

He laughs, leaning out the window. “Good thing you’re hot, ’cause you’re not friendly.”

I scoff. “Go to work.”

He revs it again—too hard. The engine sounds like it might give up entirely.

Then he pulls off, cutting into the garage.

I take a breath. Cold, steady.

And follow him in.